


Deep Red Roses Convey Heartfelt Regret and Sorrow

by Silverinia



Category: The Good Fight (TV), The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Idiots in Love, Mild Smut, except that it isn't fun, like not fun at all, no fun--only pain, pain that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 22:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverinia/pseuds/Silverinia
Summary: Giving someone fifteen red roses means that one’s done something to upset them and wish for forgiveness.(Episode-continuation of 2x04 'Day 429')





	Deep Red Roses Convey Heartfelt Regret and Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Explanation: In the end of episode 2x04 'Day 429' (TGF), Kurt gives Diane a bouquet of red roses, fifteen red roses to be exact (yes, I watched the scene frame for frame to count them), and giving someone fifteen red roses means that they wish for forgiveness after having hurt or upset someone, and I think that’s bad for my mental health.
> 
> I’m pretty sure there already is a fic like this out there, because the idea wasn’t exactly groundbreaking and there are already so many great episode fillers or continuations or whateverthehecks. So, maybe someone’s already written a fic like this. Hell, maybe I have already written a fic like this, like really, who knows at this point. I clearly don’t.
> 
> Tbh, I don’t even remember if I’ve read a fic like this, or if I just already had this idea a while ago (it feels like that moment when you can't remember if something's canon or fanon, ya know?). Anyway, I’m sorry if there actually is a fic like this. That would be a case of accidental robbery.
> 
> Enjoy.

She did not know what was worse.

Whether it was the sound of him swallowing his deep groans, the synchronization of the sudden movement of his Adam’s apple, or how she felt him trying to control the jerking of his hips against hers that became more and more impossible to control with every passing second, every passing thrust of his with which he aimed into her slick walls. Whether it was the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead that she could make out in the pale light of the lit lamp on the bedside table, the side that had once been labeled his, back then, when things had not been messed up yet, when their relationship and later their marriage had only been troubled by complications that did not even seem complicated at all anymore, the past overshadowed by the raw horror that had taken over the present, when there had always been love and trust between them, or at least when she’d thought that this was the case. Back then, when everything had been normal, when everything had been alright and when they had been sure that ‘alright’ would always be the most fitting descriptive to guess what would lay in their future; back when ‘they’ had still existed outside the edges of wishful thinking, back then, when this had still undoubtedly been his bedside table, some classic novel or a textbook on ballistics—whatever literature he was invested in at the time—carelessly placed on its surface and the respective bookmark uselessly crushed beneath the weight of case and paper, because he could not care less about the proper use of bookmarks, even though she would always mockingly remind him of it when he would waste precious minutes of his time searching for the right page again in the following morning, when she would step out of the bathroom and smile at the side of him perched up against the headboard in an old white shirt and boxers or simple grey sweatpants because he never cared to spend an extra dollar on a matching pair of pajamas, on _his_ side of _their_ bed, squinting his eyes at the pages, one brow furrowed in the way it was now.

She did not know whether it was the memories of the old times, the good times, of the way things used to be, if it was the fact that her mind kept on reminding her of the fact that they had already come to an end and that there was no way back to them. Or maybe the worst of it all was that her actions were what had let it become final, cut off the last small chance they’d had of being able to go back, crushed the last glimpse of hope that she had had up until this morning that there was still a way, a road ahead that would lead them back that they simply had not discovered yet, of that he would eventually end up on his side of their bed again in the mornings and that they would be able to fix this, that everything would eventually be okay again. A small glimpse of hope that she should have given up on long before this morning and even longer before this night. A small glimpse of hope that she had tried to shake off and convince herself of that it was not actually there anymore because it felt so weak to acknowledge its everlasting presence, even though she knew exactly that it had always still been there, until she had gone off and screwed it up.

And maybe it was not even important to determine what was worse about this situation. Maybe it did not even matter anymore which failure was the worst one out of all the mistakes they had made over the years.

Because the only thing she knew was that she could not stand it anymore, seeing him, feeling him in their intimacy, while he tried so hard to last for her. To feel his breathing hinge in discomfort in his attempt to put her first, when he did not even know what she had done to him, to them.

To the last glimpse of a chance that they had had, up until last night.

Seeing him so tense, so deeply buried in frustration about himself, looking like he was about to drown beneath the weight of feeling like he was not doing good enough, like _he_ was not good enough, of thinking that this was about him and not her because she knew that for him and in his silly little world, she would never be considered the problem. It was always him, screwing up, not giving enough, not trying hard enough, when he did not even know who she had become, that the person he was fighting for had ceased to exist, now, that she could not even recognize herself anymore.

The clear droplets of his sweat were shimmering in the light while they ran down over his cheekbone like tears that she was holding back, slowly at first and then suddenly faster when they had passed the curve of his skin, until they got out of her sight, escaped her toxin like they deserved to do. She wished he would just get up and do the same, for his own sake or for her to get the punishment she knew she deserved.

She closed her eyes as she swallowed hard, attempting to keep a sob hidden in her throat, trying to relish in the feeling of not having to look at his face, at the frustration that was written in the pattern of his wrinkles, or worse, in the shade of his tired, green eyes, trying to soothe her wish of not having to look at the part of his naked body that was in her sight anymore, his skin exposed in the most intimate way, like she had a right to see it, a right to be granted with his trust that allowed him to let her see it, like she still deserved to look at his handsome face, at the familiar lines of his broad shoulders, his chest hair that was damp from their mingling sweat, at his beauty.

She wished he would stop. Stop moving, stop circling the tip of his thumb over her wet clit as he fucked her with everything he had and more. She could not imagine the pain he must have felt at this point; it seemed like hours had passed since they had been rejoined in this way that was too painfully familiar, too full of affection, of sincere love, several hours that he had been trying to make her feel good, to bring her joy and pleasure and the feeling of being loved by him. It must have been an extraordinary kind of physical pain, feeling like he was about to explode at any second now, painful to clench his teeth in this way that made his jaw look too tense for his kind eyes.

Maybe this was the worst part of it all. That he was actually succeeding in making her feel his love, the love that she did not deserve anymore and was still craving like the oxygen she was breathing out of the air.

She wished he would stop.

The swift movement of her lashes revealed her eyes when she was relatively confident that she would be able to keep the tears at bay. A low grunt escaped him as their gazes locked and she let her fingers wander up from his shoulder and into his damp hair.

His brow was furrowed, his eyes thinned. His breathing was heavy and she felt his pulsating erection twitching against her flesh as he pushed it further in with every blind, fast-paced thrust, aiming for and hitting the spot that usually never failed to make her see stars.

But not tonight. Not tonight, where nothing was the way it had once been anymore.

One of the corners of her lips twitched aside in the slightest movement, the result of a shitty attempt of casting him a dishonest smile that she could not produce for the world, even though one would think that she was well-practiced when it came to lying to him at this point, and she clenched her muscles around him, caused his breathing to still for a moment while his hips froze in their movement.

“Diane.”, he half hissed, half groaned out, pressing his eyes tightly shut as he dipped his head in concentration, his fingertip coming to a halt between her swollen, parted labia. “Don’t.”

She swallowed again, almost causing herself to choke on the dryness in her throat. She wished she could fake it, for the sake of either one of them. To finally put this to its end and to put both of them out of each of their misery, like a huntsman that would only shoot injured game in the woods, a vet who would put a pet softly into a never-ending sleep. To end the pain and finish this situation, so neither of them would have to suffer any longer.

She wished she could do that for him. But she couldn’t.

He would know, he knew her well enough to spot the difference. And it would make it even worse for him, to feel her faking it. It would leave him thinking that she did it because he was not doing good, not trying hard enough. And she could not bear the thought of being dishonest with him yet again, especially not when it came to this. It just hurt too much already, just as it was. There was no point in bringing even more lies and dishonesty into what had once been their shared bedroom.

Her fingers curled into his hair, her hold on it increasing as she willed him to look at her, and the second he did she regretted it as the pain flashing through her heart at the sight of his eyes came back.

“Kurt.”, she said softly, like a plea, like his name was her one last wish before an execution. Her voice did not even sound like her own anymore. “Let go.”

His lips parted beneath his moustache and it shot another vain flash of pain through her chest. He was so proud, proud and stubborn, just like her, but his love for her was even bigger than his pride.

“No, I—“, he began before she cut him off.

“Kurt, please.” _End this_ , she thought. _Just make it stop_. Like she was in the position to ask that of him. Like she was in the position to ask anything of him at all anymore. “It’s okay.”, she heard her own whisper, like it wasn’t the biggest lie anyone had ever come up with. Because truth be told, _nothing_ , not even a single facet of this moment, was okay.

The gap of his opened mouth closed slowly before he pressed his lips tightly, almost forceful, together. He looked away from her when he started moving again, at a slower pace than prior, still rubbing her clit with his finger, as if it made a difference for either one of them, and she was glad to lose the weight of his eyes on her for this short moment, glad to escape the evident shame in the look in his eyes that she had caused him, to just be able to lay there as though she had finally managed to exhale the little life she had had left in her into the air, where it slowly and leisurely mingled with his warm, uneven breathing. She felt like a puppet, her naked hips and lower back pressing into the mattress, the back of her head bumping softly further up and down again on the pillow beneath her, in the loss of control that shook through his body. It made it easier for the moment.

It felt like home, when she started to feel him spilling into her, just like it had felt like home when he had kissed her earlier in her office, when he had unzipped her black pencil skirt on their way upstairs, or when their bodies had been rejoined when he had entered her for the first time in months. Every movement, every single touch, the mere blink of his eyes was like the only home she had ever had, the only shelter she had ever found in this cold world where cruelty had the upper hand and love was so often at loss.

He felt like home.

And it was just too much to have when she knew exactly that there was no one more undeserving of this feeling than her.

She closed her eyes when he began to release the resemblance of a grunt, or the audible part of it that he could not keep holding captive in his throat. She turned her head aside on the pillow to look into the direction of her bedside table, away from the light, away from what had once used to be his side of the bed, away from where he would sleep tonight when fatigue and exhaustion would finally shout louder than the voices in his mind that would try to figure out what he had done wrong yet again and eventually lead him back to the only mistake that this wonderful man had probably ever made in the decades of his lifetime. He would sleep there, snore lightly, when he would be done for the night with blaming himself for having screwed it all up again, when in reality, the only one who was to blame would be lying sleeplessly next to him, on what had once been labeled her side of the bed, back when bedsides had still been labeled, back when it had still mattered because there had been two people in this picture that had shrunken and decreased to turn into a pathetic little portrayal of one.

And there were always two types of portraits of a single person. One that struck power, and one that unraveled the shameful reason why they were alone.

Her thighs twitched involuntarily when he slipped out of her, as if there was a slim, narcissistic part inside her that still wanted to keep him where he was, that wanted to prolong the feeling of being one together, when it was actually the last thing she wanted to fool either of them with right now. Their days of togetherness, the days of being one joined union, had been counted the second she had chosen to just throw them away without the blink of an eye, like they were garbage, like they were nothing.

It was selfish. She was selfish. And she had always known this, but the extent of it only really hit her now.

The mattress bounced slightly beneath her when he came to rest on his back to her right, facing the ceiling while she was still looking away from him, not having it in her to look at him again, to grant herself another gaze at the personification of the feeling of love, not having it in her to hurt him again with whatever look she would wear on her face because he would misinterpret it again. She was no good at this, at lying to him, and it was yet again another face of her selfishness, her egotism, that the thought of him knowing what she had done and having to live with the consequences of her fuck-up seemed more unbearable than lying to him was.

The awkwardness of the moment did not lessen her wish that it would never come to an end. She could not face him, felt physically ill from even thinking about the sound of his voice, not to mention hearing the thoughts she knew he was thinking in the concern, the fear that would lay in his tone. His misplaced self-depreciation, the way he was blaming himself, the small, naïve core of her heart ached for the possibility of never having to face them.

But, of course, his breathing eventually did turn back to normal again. And of course, the first thing he did was to sit up, reach down and cover their bare skin with the silk bedsheets he found slightly scrunched up at the foot of the bed, because he would never forget that she easily got cold, especially at night. And of course, he lay on his side, facing her while she faced the other side of the room, and brushed a couple of damp strands of blonde off her forehead. And of course, she was forced to hear the meaningful sound of his low, honest voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Of course he was sorry. He was sorry because he did not know better, because she did not let him know better. She did not know if she wanted to scoff and laugh about it, or if she wanted to stand up and yell at him from the top of her aching lungs. Scream at him because she wanted him to scream back at her, because she deserved his anger more than anything else. Pure, painful and violent anger that would be too much for her to take, his raw fury that would hopefully be enough to shatter her into pieces, because that was what she was supposed to get, instead of the never-ending guilt-trip she wasn’t rescuing him from because she was a fucking coward.

Here she was, concerned about his feelings and still not making the slightest move to change something about them for the better. Because even if he would end up hating her because of it, it would be better than having him continuing to hate himself for something he was not even responsible for, for something in which he was actually the only truly injured party.

She wanted to scream until the alarmed neighbors would call the police, yell until her voice would be too hoarse to continue, laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation she had forced upon them. But her body, her mind and heart, something weak inside her that was keeping her from doing all that, from putting him out of his misery, settled on letting her eyes fill with a new coat of tears.

A new coat of weakness. Another layer of cowardice.

That was what she had become.

Her brows formed a pained frown, her lips pressed together tightly while her abdomen shivered in a silent sob. The first tear snuck out through the outer corner of her eye, rolling over her temple and mingling with her sweat until it left a small, wet spot on the purple silk case of her pillow.

Inhaling sharply, she swallowed. “Stop.”, she whispered and hoped that he would not hear the knot in her throat straining her thin voice.

His fingers gently curled around her upper arm, his thumb brushing up and down soothingly on her skin. Soothing her, like it was anything but a waste of his time, effort and energy. A sorry waste of his love.

“Di, please…”, he began and never finished it, maybe too taken aback by the frail sound of his own voice.

A new wave of tears shot into her eyes, blinding her sight as her closed lips quivered in the force of her guilt. _Please… please, what?_ she thought. _Please let me take the blame? Please don’t blame me for taking the blame? Please don’t feel bad because our betrayals don’t measure up anymore? Because you finally destroyed what was left of us, when I didn’t manage to destroy it?_

Her stomach twisted the second the syllable of his nickname for her escaped him between his lips. And suddenly, she jumped up, shook his warm touch off her skin, escaped the shared silk sheets and hurried to the bathroom without looking back at him again, too afraid of what he would have to go through when he would see the blinding tears in her blue eyes raining down her cheeks.

She slammed the door shut behind her and barely had the time to press her palm against her lips when the first sob escaped her. Violently, it caused her body to shudder while the tears that ran freely over her face kept on coming like frequent cascades of giant tsunami waves crashing over the borders of a coast to destroy whatever they could reach.

Her upper back collided with the cold, polished wood of the door as her free arm slung around her abdomen, her skin tacky from the dried layer of sweat on it, while she felt the warm reminder of his climax dripping out of her core to slowly run down over the insides of her thighs.

The warm, sticky feeling let her sobs increase, her conscience, the vicious feeling of guilt, the plain knowledge of what she had done and of that because of her, the one person who deserved to know the truth more than anyone else, didn’t know, the picture of his expression, the echo of the uncharacteristic sound of his voice, the memory of his warm and gentle touch, and the thought of the stupid bouquet of fifteen red roses that she had put in her best porcelain vase, downstairs on the center of her dinner table, the knowledge of all the things he had done to get her to forgive him, while she had just gotten drunk, drugged herself up and gone off to fuck the first person she could get her hands on, because it had been easy, nothing but an easy distraction and because that had been more important to her than the man she loved in her own growing insanity.

She never knew if her sobs had been loud enough to echo through the small gap beneath the door for him to hear. But when she later returned to the bedroom, she found the bed empty and its two sides had rightfully lost their meaning again.


End file.
